The Boy and the Old Man
by Arhani 'Hanny' Daforcena
Summary: A long time ago, a boy met an old man and from then on, the fate of the world was never the same. Makarov-centric, set during the events of MW1. Hope you like it!


"You look like a man who could use a gun," an old man told him a long, long time ago. Without even thinking, that old man dropped an M9 into his hands, and walked away. That old man had left him to carve a name for himself as an underworld legend in the seedy parts of Europe and soon, the world, specializing in every single illegal trade known to man. At his prime, he was most famous for being the only "foreigner" able to control the illegal arms cartels in China from Xinjiang to Shanghai itself.

* * *

But now, things were different. The prodigious- soldier-turned-underworld-boss was no longer the man he was. His past so blackened that not even the Russian Mafiya dared to touch him, was now a man of bright political future. One of the youngest amongst the new party known as the Ultranationalists, this boy ((for in the old man's mind, the younger man would always be a boy) would mastermind the havoc that they would rouse all around the world.

Known in Russia as the heirs of the Soviet Union that time had forgotten, that promised to restore Russia to all her glory and finery, the Ultranationalists banded together with like-minded factions all around the world. And the reign of fire continued where the al-Qaeda had failed, but not from the Middle East, but from Russia itself.

The boy was now a politician, a strategist, a terrorist, and even more. The boy was a trusted associate of the old man, and with the old man's son, they led a growing number of men, men who believed in the same cause, to return the favor of injustice done upon their great mother. The Russian Ultranationalist Party. "You have carried everything out well, Vladimir," the old man who gave the boy a gun, Zakhaev, his name was, Imran Zakhaev. "I have taught you well indeed."

The one spoken to, the one with heterochromic eyes that threatened with ice and lightning, the boy who so willingly accepted the dark weapon from the man only let out a bitter chuckle, one that became highly characteristic of him. It was a deadpan one, one of sarcasm and irony. "Apparently not enough, Zakhaev," he said. As always, his voice was light. In a normal man, that would not make him very frightful indeed, but he was not a normal man. That hopeful, but wronged soldier was no longer there. What had replaced that hot-blooded male overflowing with zealous patriotism was a colder, icy persona. This man would not even flinch at the stench of decaying corpses floating over rivers of blood. Indeed, he was working to see those gruesome sights. "We now have the British SAS and the US Marine Reconnaissance Force on your tail."

"Mere flies for you to clean up," Zakhaev told him. He knew this warrior well, and although he might take the needs of his own vengeance towards the western countries deeper into his head than the Ultranationalists needed to, Zakhaev knew that the younger man would not dare to defy him. "I trust that you have secured our guest in a safe place?"

He nodded, and said, "We have him rather well protected in Azerbaijan. It would be quite some time before they rest of the world finds out that he is hiding there."

At the moment, Zakhaev seemed to be content with the way things were going. With such a brilliant apprentice, there was no doubt that he should not be. After all, the boy did secure an alliance with a military leader from that miniscule country in the Middle East. The coup that they had put together was less than staggering; what with the highly unstable nature of Middle Eastern politics, but it was the aftermath that shocked the world… To create a future for their party, the boy drew the eyes of the world to that useless piece of sand, so that they could place their focus on where they really should, and it was what he was going to do.

"Very well done, Vladimir," he told the boy, who was still gazing upon the map, trying to find a more strategic measure for their future operations. "The Americans and their allies will no doubt seek to destroy the man who had brought so many of their brothers to their deaths… Is it true that the leader of the Americans has succumbed to grief?"

There were whispers, of course, whispers saying that a certain Lieutenant-General that had been leading 30, 000 of the Marines that were sent to invade al-Asad's homeland had gone… silent. There had been no news of what that man would do next at all. Zakhaev took it as a sign of victory, while the boy, he took it as another sign. "He has gone off the grid," he reported to Zakhaev, "There has been no news of him ever since. But I'll doubt that he'll be continuing the fight."

A smile graced Zakhaev's lips. "Then we have achieved more than we have bargained for," he said to the boy, who could only muster a nod. "Make sure that Viktor is alerted of our future operations, Vladimir. And ensure that you still remain in the shadows. We cannot afford the revelation of your identity."

The world must continue to remember that it was Viktor Zakhaev that was the field commander of the Ultranationalist armed forces, not because his son was incapable of doing anything, but because the boy was too valuable to them. The boy lacked one thing that most men had: conscience. It had been exchanged by utter hatred and anger towards all those that had done him wrong. That lack had made him into a different devil altogether, one that was unafraid of the outcomes of his actions.

Russia needed that kind of leader the most at those times. One that was efficient, unhindered by a beating heart… The boy was ingenious, using one operation as a cover for another. And with his ingenuity, he was the greatest weapon of the Ultranationalists, and he would continue to blaze a path for himself and for Mother Russia. Zakhaev only knew that it would not be long before they would be able to secure total power, and control Russia before it would be able to prostitute more of itself to the ever-consuming West.

"Understood," the boy replied, with a curt nod. He always had impeccable manners. Zakhaev had found him spurned by the army that he had served with his heart and his soul, but he had been orphaned ever since the beginning. Whoever his parents were, he knew that the boy had been raised cultured and refined. This young man would always appear in a clean, crisp, dark suit, and never once let a foul-mouth syllable pass through his lips. Yes, he was a refined young lad, even more so in his methods.

"Remember, Vladimir, for the sake of Russia, you must remember that the shadows are where you must lie," Zakhaev reminded the boy once more. "Not a soul can protect you if you are discovered." The boy did not need protection, not at a time like this, when he had resources as vast as his own.

The boy nodded once more, and left his office.

* * *

The old man was right; Makarov knew that more than anything. The old man had been right from the very first moment he had met him, a long, long time ago. But now, Makarov had more important things to attend to. Like the fact that they, the Ultranationalists, could be on the brink of oblivion. The old man might have been overconfident with their abilities, but he knew that the old man was right in saying that he could not be discovered at all.

Perhaps when they have more control over Russia, perhaps when the armies of the West were weaker… He does not need it, he tells himself, time and time again. He does not need the glory and the limelight that comes with a life in politics. He was a politician, of course, but like all Ultranationalists, he was a warrior as well.

With the United States and the United Kingdom breathing down their necks, Makarov knew that the old man must have gotten rather haughty in his old age. Therefore, he had already made sure that al-Asad would not make a single squeak about his existence to those who would hunt them down.

"Your wives and children are safe…" he told al-Asad in the latter's safehouse. "I do not know about you, but I hope that for their sake, you do not reveal to our enemies that I was the one who gave you that nuclear missile."

Al-Asad eyed him suspiciously, looking at the photograph that the Russian had shown him. "How do I know that this is a real photograph?" he asked Makarov, whose expression did not change. Calmly, Makarov gave him a video-enabled mobile phone and showed him a live video footage of his three wives and ten children, all huddled together, weeping in a cell, crying for him. They were hungry, cold and afraid, but at least they were alive… "The Shadow of Zakhaev… Tell me, do you think that it is worth it, Vladimir?" al-Asad asked him in his own language. "Living under a man's shadow, taking pride in that fact? You could become something so much greater!"

Makarov rolled his eyes. "My path is one that I decide for myself, Khaled," he told the Middle-Eastern militant before him, still wearing sunglasses in the dark of the night. "I would not have taken it if I would have nothing to gain from it." That was true. Makarov had made a luxurious business empire out of nothing in a mere decade under the old man's watchful eyes, and the next in the darkest of shadows, engineering a political party-cum-terrorist cell that would rock the foundations of the earth. "My path will never be seen by others, but at least, my goals would be attained."

"Many like you have sought to destroy the armies of the West," al-Asad continued. "Bin Laden has tried and failed, Saddam Hussien… what makes you so different?"

"I have absolutely nothing to lose," Makarov answered, simply and concisely. "The old man is the closest thing I have to a father, and I will assure you that no harm will come to him under my watch. You, on the other hand, should worry about when your future captors are coming, and to stay hidden until they pass."

* * *

But as all well-planned tactics went, things went the wrong way for Makarov. Al-Asad was captured and executed by a joint task force of the British SAS and the US Marines, the very same factions that he had warned the old man about. The old man's son, Viktor, was the next target, but valiantly committed suicide to avoid capture. It had been a great blow to the old man, to lose his only flesh and blood.

* * *

"My son's blood is on their hands…" the old man sighed that night when Viktor had died. Makarov and his men had fought hard to retrieve the body, and they were only able to do so much for the old man's son, save for a simple funeral. The only comfort was that he died fighting, and never once betrayed them to their enemies.

"Vengeance will be ours," Makarov reassured the old man. "But this will take time. We cannot rush our further operations, or they would discover us…"

The old man did not listen to him. It was the first time since he could ever remember. The death of his son was too great for him to handle, and thus, the old man started to break, and to lose the firm control he had. Before their inner circle, he instructed that they would deploy the RT-2UTTH Topol-M ballistic missiles that they had in their arsenal, but knew that there had to be precautions to be taken.

"If I do not survive this operation, all future actions by the Ultranationalist party will be governed by these last wishes of mine," the old man told the members of their faction closest and dearest to him, save for his now-deceased son. "Change our front into a political one, make the people of Russia see us as their protectors, and not as their servitors. Make them realize that we will bring change and stability, and not the perils that the West has brought. If you succeed, the boy will continue in his terrorist activities, to throw the eyes of the world from our political wing. Vladimir, you must mislead them into thinking that you are on hostile terms with Vorshevsky… However, Vorshevsky, you will be assisted by Vladimir at all times. I do not trust the true governance of Russia to anyone else."

Those words were taken seriously by all of them, save for one. The boy looked at the old man and stood up. For the first time in his life and memory, he would speak against the old man. "Zakhaev, I beg you to reconsider!" he exclaimed to the man who he had seen as his father. "We need you all the more here and now, not as a matyr!"

However, the old man remained as he had said. "No!" he shouted back with just as much force. "Have I not stressed how important it is that you remain central to all our operations?" he asked the boy. "Viktor is dead! You are my last hope, Vladimir!"

Hope… it seemed a long time ago since the boy had ever held on to such a word. "Only you can continue our vision," the old man continued. "I will defend the missile silo, while you prepare our men to further greatness once the East Coast of the United States has fallen! Until then, you will not have any part of this operation, have I made myself clear?"

The boy could do nothing but keep his silence, and nod his head in compliance.

* * *

It turned out that those were the last words that the old man had said to him. The very next day, reports were received that Zakhaev was dead, shot down by the SAS and the Marines.

The medics that came with them immediately came out with a post mortem. The bullets that had been found in the old man's body were immediately traced to one SAS Captain in the name of John Price. He would pay for what he had done. "I will avenge you and Viktor," he said once again to the old man, whose corpse already showed signs of decay. "I promise you that he will suffer for what he has done…"

And that was the one and only time when the others had seen a genuine tear slip pass his cold eyes of green and of blue down his face. That was the only time the boy ever showed any emotion, apart from anger and rage. For without the old man the boy was nothing. Without the old man, the boy was just a boy, as lost as he had been when the old man had just found him. But the world could not know that. No, the world could never know that.

Thus, the boy stood up and carried the corpse of the old man in his arms, until they were at a safe place for their helicopters to land, far, far from the Loyalists, and then and there, the boy plotted his vangeance. Vangeance towards the one man who had taken the old man from him.

_I have taught you well, Vladimir,_ the old man praised. He would soon unleash his own retalation. Soon, he will make the world see that the Ultranationalists were not enemies that could be taken lightly. It had already begun, and the first step would be to immediately capture the one who caused all this.

Yes, the boy had it all planned, right in his head.

He would see it through until the end.

Just for the old man.


End file.
